Together we've tripped on, Starry tightropes While pinning places On torn maps I almost fell for the stories Of a different sky While you were making us, Paper planes I missed the flight, Knowingly But you never took off anyway
Two fifteen year olds Almost in love Until one of them Falls apart Now I know What it's like A friend, When he walks away What a sweater feels On a summer day. 3 winters, And yet again I hope you still make paper planes
~M e g h a// Desire
For a friend, belated happy birthday <3 Happy Adulting. Miss you. I hope you read this someday
I'm watching the painted skies, Creasing at uneven edges The blues from the skies Seep into my soul A poem buried into the woods The sunset rhymes with shades It is the 18th winter Yet again Spent by the bonfire Do not ask me, What I burn Or about the fuel It is the season Where they ask you The coldness of your words Or why do you write But tell me, What is poetry, If not another call from the blues.
Your eyes shift shades Like weather forecasts This is the season Of Hozier by the fire Reciting free verses Like he lived through his songs, All of them I love how winter is so deceiving You can always lie, About your bloodshot eyes Or your baritone 'It's just some cold'
The city gulps a strepsil The morning newspaper lets out a cough Your forget-me-not blue From your favourite t-shirt Settles on the foggy skies Your resignation letters float, Like paper planes. The burnt pasta doesn't knock, On your insecurities. Your messed bedroom Starts to make sense
But no, This is not a lazy-sunday-morning-poem This is how your healing will look like
There lays a patch of sky A little jealous of its neighbourhood Draped in solitude And here I stand Under so many lights, A festive crowd Yet the blues above my head, Feels no less than a stranger I long for the skies Where there is no light From the firecrackers But a patchwork of stars, Looking for their soulmates
Dear empty skies, May you find a home Like I found in you Where emptiness is not outcasted Where every ounce of your soul is embraced
~M e g h a //Festivity
Too much of noise. Please don't hurt the stray animals. Festivals are to spread kindness
@writersnetwork I don't know if you'll read this but I want to say thank you for a lot of reasons, not just for the reposts. Thank you
It has been one whole fall; A pretty hectic one I saw the skies last time Through scarred branches And broken twigs You were there to pick on my flaws It has been one whole fall Spring is almost here I look at the skies After one whole forever And you're not here To pick on my flaws The sky looks pretty Through flowers on branches I look into my wrist The scars have healed The flowers bloom aloud, So do I.
Everything is a metaphor, you,me, everything. This sea is a giver and a taker altogether. The right vision shows you a myriad of emotions, these waves carry suppressed sobs, sweet smiles, words that are dagger edge sharp. But at the end of the day most people are waves, some leave you sea shells and stop borderline to your sandcastles, they are just kind. But mostly they are cruel, they're no less than a tyrant, they take away promises on sand beds. They leave you dirt, sea weeds, ruining your sandcastles, your home.
You're the first kind. Always have been
Clouds are cosmic bohemians, While the sky, Is a universal constant I Lament for a heart That doesn't beat for me The wind chimes are kind They sing me songs By a mystic lady From another realm The clouds carry my name They've stayed enough To get heavy with grief For every downpour My ship sinks worse I'm a metaphoric ship-wreck Let the clouds tell you, My dear mystic lady You're the only haven I'll ever have.
You've left me, Fading chemtrails While he gently crosses the state lines I shouldn't have knocked on the blues This hard. The clouds break into rains anyway He hates monsoons I love the rainbows We were supposed to watch the sunsets They're so gloomy in his city And so pink in mine, The stars pair into a galaxy While I await their fall.
I want to etch a universe Where the ebony and ivory skinned Dine in the same platter Where they do not name castes, After bloodshed and feud But after faith and oneness Where nations hold their flags Together, while keeping Their geographical neighbours in hearts.
I want to etch a universe Where dreams are not fastened To one's destiny But to the chariot of capabilities Where slums manufacture gems And stand tall amidst the city fringes A universe where humanity serves, As the mightiest of religions
I want to etch a universe, Where they do not scrap out the artist, Out of the scientist, But water the bud of art So that it grows to be a mighty oak And give shelter to its offsprings Where they measure books and paints In the same scale And this poem, the worthiest.
I want to etch a universe Where they don't draw a horizon In gender bias, but As a string that holds the children Of Adam and eve together Where they paint sunsets In stains of equality And hold the seams of skies in unison.
I want to etch a universe Where this poem isn't a hushed desire But a far cry to rebel To remake, To rebuild The world in a better place, A call to that art and science To blend a miraculous mix For this world to be the same universe, My quill wants to etch.
Monsoon plays the gramophone Its tender echo against my windowpane The rains have a saviour complex It checks on me every while You don't explain feminine tears, Or rains in tropical zones But it's so humane to leave Yet so natural to stay The thunder knocks upon my reverie, You're never here when it rains.
We are in the ocean of love crippled with the fear of drowning and desiring to taste the waters expecting it to be our favourite drink, not knowing everyone tastes it different.
Some tightly clutching paper boats of their childhoods against their bosoms, some blindfolded after the trauma of abusive relationship of their parents , some with their hands tied, and some holding hands of their co-passenger and some deliberately jumping into the waves and some waiting eternally for their dream lover to arrive in yachts and swim them away.
The ebbs and tides raft two lovers but sometimes they become the reason to break them apart.
Like half crumpled paper and a fistful of mayhem of undone beliefs: love unfolds from a dull constellation of unaligned fate and still typing keyboard into a universe of backspaced confessions and 'happily ever after' endings.
The soft haunting voice of Phoebe Bridgers sings you to a melancholic sleep and I lay awake reading Plath's bell jar and staring at Van Gogh's starry night; searching for Woolf's lighthouse; the background plays Hemingway's speech and in my dreams I kill myself like I do everytime, only to wake up.
Why do writers kill themselves? Perhaps only time shall show me.
Timid wind blows your hair from your smile, and we both crouch laughing our hearts out, unaware of the slithering time making its way towards us, past the memories, nature plays a nostalgic classic jazz blended with pop for us to dance our heads on each other's shoulders against the soft moonlight falling on each other's face.
Dementia is way too hard too deal with, it'll be hard but I promise to stay even if our memories disappear and love leaves our home.
Like falling leaves on a windy days, our memories are slipping from the webspace of our hards against the bare ground, filled with lava, like that from our childhood games.
Longing and loneliness swing like a pendulum & an introspective violin piece; we never realised: love was never really the ocean, it wasn't just limited the ocean, but the whole shorelines, skylines subtly infuriating sometimes setting the clouds aflame with her hues, and sometimes crying aloud reminiscing over sacred vow she made to the land that got submerged beneath the mighty oceans like a forgotten secret; the changing seasons; stories that we shared— it wasn't limited to romantic partners and romanticising existence, but the little joy in ordinary things which makes us extraordinary; jokes and laughs and food that you share, the way you make someone smile, laying on the grass, walking barefoot, writing poems, complimenting a random stranger, confessing things you were too afraid to, the whole universe, including your existential crisis and not wanting to exist anymore, you existing, crying for your loved ones, remembering them through memories and stories.
Let me stay for a little while and not write any poems, let me gaze at you, a masterpiece in making, save me not because you're the catastrophe I've been waiting for my entire life and the one I'll like to trade my life for.
- Sunshower 18 November '21
P.S. after long trying my hand at long proses. P.P.S - TS reference
tell me, what's worse ? forgetting my birthday, or, moving past the people who remind me of that cursed day ? nothing is going to fill the craters, the crevices, no Bible is going to compensate for the verses, that the heated Carnot engine inside my six-inch-screen had ingested into its heat-sink.
pardon the thermodynamics, pardon my tendencies, seeking science in tragedies — the wave of unwarranted spite, it washes you over like a misplaced summer breeze in the middle of November. so, here's the warm breeze at the cusp of a wintry realisation : you would rather take it to the stories since, the lack of validation, made you feel bitter.
nothing punches a hole into my heart, bigger than leaving home and my parents, exactly before the hour of my adulthood — exactly before, the death-clock tends to twenty. my mother had asked me to have faith, and, honestly, if there was somebody up there : I would have asked him to help me; to blow the heaven's trumpet, help me, in the death of my innocence.
what turns a boy into a man ? is it his exposure to a rusty, out-of-tone guitar ? a tattoo on his wrist that is bizarre, a suicide-note, written in utmost disregard, or, an old conceptual car ? what turns a boy into a man ?
I wish we could talk more, more than we already do. I wish for a lot of things, and, oftentimes : the imagery isn't sufficient in order to bring my art to a life of its own, hence, writing non-fiction is just as important as going on about someone's cranberry clitoris; like that one time when I wanted to bring a gun to the first day of my school — and, I know that you, you wouldn't run even when the safety's off.
I've had several losses, from strangers to lovers, but, nothing ever came quite close to creating this void, like the loss of my previous phone did. my memories rest, peacefully or not — we shall never know, but, they rest, behind the veil of a black screen, they rest, forever.
It's been so long I'm almost tempted to call it, a forever. There's an uneasiness seated on my throat, I try to cough it away but it stays, like an aftermath of grief dumping, but I don't spit out facts. In fact, I'm getting better at swallowing chaos, sandwiched between two hands of peace. It's getting colder, with a lethargic November slowly crawling into my sleeves. I try snuggling against lessons learnt from last winter, but its rough fabric struggles to keep me warm.
My mother says, her skin is more sensitive than mine; I wish I could tell her, It isn't always about rashes or natural remedies, sometimes winter just hits harder on one person of the same side.
they say, a sea has secrets many but what about the one in front of me? they say, an ocean is a great sink that gurgles with glassed words in its womb and generations of ashes floating freely, then drowning in acceptance like crushed tea leaves in grandma's cup of tea. the questions in my mind seem to lose their voices; one by one, they dive into the waves savouring a taste of mortality from my partially submerged feet.
I hear the people in uniform blowing their whistles, as if announcing a war to minds in sleep. this time, it's not a war but the waters rising to a level higher, than the established peace. I wonder if it's the storm tiptoeing around borders of the town, or the ocean's refusal to admitting my questions to its undiscovered list of secrets many. maybe I should leave, but the watery roar of late reminds me of grandma, she loved seas and a man in uniform; but wars never end, whether they come with thunders and drums or unannounced like metaphorical storms.
I look at the ocean, this time it turns away barging into low-set clouds of tonight's sky. maybe I should really leave, I can't fight every war they project at me.